Tuesday, February 28, 2006

The joy of insanity

Some non-fictional stories have a good premise but lack in interesting details, so embellishments are needed here and there. That won't be necessary here. This story, won't do the details justice.

I had my first encounter with a crazy customer at the register the other day. Granted, many of the Trader Joe's customers are a bit off their rockers. They buy A LOT of cat food. A lot of cat food equals a lot of cats. A lot of cats equals a lot of lonliness. A lot lonliness equals something we like to call insanity. Hence, many of our customers are insane.

However, this lady's insanity had little to do with lonliness and everything to do with a curious disorder called paranoid schizophrenia. Yes, I've taken abnormal psychology and I managed a B bitch, I'm pretty sure about this one. My first hint this lady may have been beaten by the crazy stick was when she started asking other customers for donations. She was in line and kept saying, "Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations? Donations?..."

She arrvies at my register, after receiving no donations, and I proceed to check her out. I say, "Hi how's it going?" and I get no response. Instead, she just stares at me with these eyes that penetrate my soul. As I look into them, I shit you not, I could see a bunch of smurfs in the background stuffing things into boxes labeled "Craziness". There was also a husky smurf standing with a whip, pointing to a sign that read: "Tuesday - 602,568 units of crazy produced. Good job guys keep it coming." So that's how it's made.

The first words out of her mouth were, "Do you have a small box of grapes?". I send someone to go get her some grapes, he comes back with our smallest container, but she says there's too many. She takes a plastic bag, opens the container and places about 15 grapes into the plastic bag, then hands me back the container and says, "I don't want those". I tell her I can't ring her up her plastic bag so I'd have to charge her for the full box. She doesn't respond. So I charge her for the box.

At about this point I could see the smurfs were really putting on a sweat. They sweat gatorade, by the way. I tell her the total is $18.20. She hands me two dollars and proceeds to stare at the counter. I say, "ma'am, your total is $18.20. You handed me two dollars... Ma'am? Ma'am? Excuse me, Ma'am?...". The counter had taken her hostage.

By this point, the customers in line are getting impatient and start telling her she needs to pay me. She snaps out of her staring contest with the counter and pulls out a... Bible. I am not making this shit up. By now, the last thing I need is a fucking lesson in salvation. But as she opens it up, stuck in between the pages was money. She hands me a ten and a five, which brings our total to $17.00. $1.20 short.

She is now reading her Bible. I'm about to choke the bitch, because resting underneath that ten and five dollar bill was a twenty. I say, "Hey, there you go. Here I'll give you this seventeen dollars back and you give me that twenty." What came next proved to me, and the customers next to her, that we were dealing with craziness on an unforseen level. She looks and me and says, "No," and here it comes, "That twenty is for Jesus."

Shall I go on? I think not. What can top hording twenty dollar bills for Jesus? Nothing, that's what. But if you're curious as to what happened next, the lady next to her was kind enough to pay the $1.20 remainder. So the bitch was done, but not quite. She stood at the end of my register for about another 5 minutes, reminding everybody that walked in or out of the store that, "Jesus loves you".

You wonderful little smurfs! Oh man, keep it coming guys. Good work, keep hitting that quota.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Where's my juicebox?

I got some action the other day at work. And by "got some action" I mean an old lady started touching my shoulder. And by "touching my shoulder" I mean she tapped me and asked where the canned olives were. And so this is life, utterly stagnant and actionless.

My mom thinks I'm an alcoholic. Being Chinese, her definition of alcoholism differs greatly from that of our western conception, in which I'd be considered a "fucking pussy" with a "working liver". In China they have this phenomena called second-hand drinking. It's when a sober asian accidentally catches a whiff of a drunk person's breath and becomes intoxicated, and this is why, in case you were wondering, they all wear those silly little masks. (So if you've been drinking, you need to especially stay away from any pregnant asians, as the health of their unborn child rests in your gastral intestinal tract.)

I checked my horoscope today on yahoo. It read,

"A blabbermouth might let your big secret slip today. Take preventative measures."

Oh no. Since I'm at school all day, I don't know what ever shall I do. So as a preventative measure I will say this: listen you fucking blabbermouth, if you ever let my big secret slip, I'll chop off all your fucking toes on one foot, so for the rest of your entire life, you will have to buy two differently sized pairs of shoes everytime you go shopping. It will hurt both physically and financially, trust me.

Of course, people who actually believe in crystal balls, horoscopes, fortune tellers, astrology and Miss Cleo's accent, have brains the size of raisinets, because believe me when I say, I have no big secret waiting to be spilled. I spill all my own secrets, and I will prove it by doing so now.

Big secret #1 - I had a twin brother at birth.
Big secret #2 - We were siamese twins.
Big secret #3 - We were the first ever to be adjoined at the testicle.
Big secret #4 - We were successfully separated, and after winning a best two out of three game of rock/paper/scissors, I was able to keep the larger half of the contested testicle. Him, still bitter about the loss, now lives in Thailand.
Big secret #5 - He is now suing me for another round of rock/paper/scissors, citing that, and I quote, "You just so happened to have your hand open while I was making a fist. That was unfair. We were babies, we didn't even know how to play."
Big secret #6 - I was a smart baby.
Big secret #7 - Our deformity was the result of second-hand drinking, which was not as well researched at the time.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

you think you're horny?

The other day I witnessed something not uncommon of men to do. I'll get into it later, but it's something we've all seen, and its a reason why I love men. I mean, not men specifically, I meant I love certain things men do... Wow that sounds even gayer, I mean, not like sexual things but certain-

fuck it...

See, us men are a naive bunch. We're dragged by a particular emotion - it's the reason why women think we're assholes, why we pleasure ourselves daily, and why we hang towels over our boners when we get out of the shower. I'm talking about horniness; jenkin it, feelin the juice, lookin to spread the butter on a warm english muffin. And before you ladies say, "Like ohmigod, as if I didn't feel that too" I say to you NOT AS MUCH! NOT AS OFTEN AS US! AND OF COURSE YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU'D HAVE TO BE THERE!

Because women can't, they really can't. I'm convinced that women in general (childhood issue stipulation) aren't anywhere near as horny as us, even though many would claim they are. Yeah right, they may have the potential to be as horny, if not hornier, than us, but they fail on consistency ratings. And before you disagree, let me prove my point. Where are your dildos?

If women were anywhere near as horny as men were, they'd carry dildos around everywhere they went. What woman wouldn't? They'd have dildos hung at their side like lightsabers, they'd stir their coffees with them, there'd be dildo vending machines in the ladies rooms, and personally if i were a chic, I'd use my own pocket rocket to please myself during class. If anybody asked what that noise was I'd claim it was my cell phone going off.

And it makes scientific sense because of a process Tom Cruise probably knows nothing about. A process that has its roots deep inside our ancestery, sort of like how our ancestery had its roots deep inside our anscestery... Get it? It was discovered by a man who's name rhymes with "Narwin" and it has alot to do with monkies. That's right, I'm talking about all five Rocky films.

No really, I'm talking about evolution. It all makes perfect sense. Us men are lazy specimens, and if we didn't have such a strong constant sex drive, you probably wouldn't be reading this right now, and your soul would be in the shape of an amoeba. Okay maybe I'm being overdramatic, but where would our species be if men could actually be "too tired" for sex? Exactly, we'd all be well-rested amoebas. Women on the other hand, need to be more selective with whom they get horny with, because they can't just have any man's babies. They need a man who exerts power, one who displays outwardly that his seed will bode well. A man like Rocky.

We need to get our jamba juice out there, so to what I was getting to earlier, sometimes this overwhelming urge to have sex has us ignoring our own physical or mental shortcomings, as was the case in the cafeteria the other day, where I saw a nerd of epic proportions make talk talk with hot lady. And she was hot, let me tell you. And he was ugly, let me tell you, with a face only God could love. He didn't care to notice the chic was obviously busy and not diggin him, so he went on, probably trying to impress her with his nerd knowledge, "... so you do know what bipedal locomotion means? It's just a fancy way to say "walking", HAHA?". This guy would NOT stop talking to this girl, after a while she started to look disgusted, but reading facial expressions ain't our thing.

Which is why I find certain men funny. Because some men are just so oblivious to signals it's entertaining to watch, unlike women, who will actually inject Ben and Jerries into their veins for days on end if a guy so much as scratches his nose with them. We've evolved into clueless bags of horny juice that can't take hints very well. A drink to the face, a hearty slap, pepper spray, a gunshot wound; hints generally need to be of this magnitude in order for us to fully acknowledge their presence. The road to a man's ego is paved by desperation and cognitive dissonance. It's in our very nature. Now if only I could be less realistic and more irrational... I'm gonna go shoot up some Ben and Jerries.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

It's a pity party and your'e all invited

I started working at Trader Joes. A decision that was substantiated upon the fact that 1) hot females like health food and 2) the store had alot of colors. This is my first job that involves working with customers, which means i'll have alot of stories about humans doing and asking stupid shit. I don't have any just yet.

Instead they threw me into the fridge all weekend. I am that guy you can hardly see, shoving yogurt and cartons of milk forward, making sure customers get everything from A-Z that comes from a cow's utter. To the outside world, I am just a hand. The temperature is frigid and dries out my skin. My nose leaks, my sweater is thin, I am cold, alone, and surrounded by dairy. I stare at women's breasts through the slots in the shelves to keep myself warm and content.

On saturday I woke up at 5:45am to start a 6:30 shift. The next day I had a 7:00am shift. I have the same schedule next week. I can't party like I used to and wake up that early. I feel my weekends drifting away from me. I feel that I'm becoming more responsible and it scares me. I'm used to waking up at 3 in the evening, checking my sheets to make sure I didn't vomit or urinate in my sleep, then debating whether I should go back to bed to hasten the arrival of night, so I can repeat the process over again.

But I like my job and I like the people I work with. They are all friendly and treat me well. I want to end my life. Sorry I didn't mean that it just came out. I think I should slice my wrists open with my box cutter. I didn't mean that either. I like my new job, I really do. Even though customers can be assholes. Yesterday I helped a lady load a box of water into her car, I asked her if that was all and she said "yeah". I nod, expecting a thank you, and tell her to have a wonderful day. She just gets in her car and drives off. I stood there, in a pool of my own teardrops.

I can deal with assholes, however. Someone else's bad day, or bad life, or bad case of anal warts, isn't my problem for the taking. I just want to be able to party. It's why I got the job in the first place. I turn 21 in 1 month to the day and I'll be damned if I did't save up money towards the Greg's a Lush fund. It's a non-profit organization, all proceeds go directly towards supplying Greg with booze money so he may continue to suppress the demons and placate his tormented soul. He likes the detatchment from reality, hence the talking in third person.

Plus I signed up to write for the school newspaper because I get credits for it. I'm going to be so busy, why the fuck did I do that? Why? Because all the writers on the school newspaper suck, that's why. So I'm gonna walk into that office and take shit over. Cheers, here is to a busy year. Pity fuck, anyone? Ok fine, just touch it then? Please? Fuck you I didn't want you anyways.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

How to argue

As my remaining friends may tell you, I know how to argue. I win them all. People will even ignore me at parties, which is understandable, because people like feeling smart, which isn't possible when I'm around. I take their avoidance as a gesture of both admiration and fear. If you want to argue anything like me, listen to these tips.

Drink Liquor

You will notice that when people argue, their voices often become loud, their actions rambunctious. If you are not drinking you may feel timid, too timid perhaps to cut into the conversation. Or maybe you just don't care. Drink up. Once that sweet ether hits your lips you will be amazed at how strongly you suddenly feel about the subject matter at hand. Next thing you know, you will be doing things like spouting off about the stock market even though you failed your economics class, and later that night when you're hugging at the toilet seat to stay conscious, at least you will know you stood up for what you believe.

Listening is a waste of mental space

You may think that in order to argue well, you must also listen well. This is a myth. Listening takes up mental space that may otherwise be used for generating a Mike Tyson super-knockout punch argument of your own. Instead of listening closely to what your opponent is saying, instead listen sporadically and selectively, the key here is to pick up on something to use against them. For example, if your opponent is expounding on the impact of Abraham Lincoln's emancipation of slaves on the U.S. economy, ask,

"Excuse me, do you even know what type of gun Abraham Lincoln was shot with?".

Most likely he will not know and say, "I don't know"

To which you reply, "You don't know huh? What a surprise. You don't know..."

After that, if you really want to seduce the audience with your argumentative wizardry, pretend you're a lawyer and say something like, "Let the record show, he doesn't know."

Make stuff up

Suppose your opponent flips the previous question around and asks if you know what gun Abraham Lincoln was shot with. You'll be damned if you knew and you only have a vague memory of some show you saw on the History Channel that asked the very same thing in a trivia question before commercial break. Make something up. Say, "Abraham Lincoln was murdered with a single shot Winchester .22 pistol fired approximately 2 inches above his left ear. There were no exit wounds." Say it in a dramatic voice, especially the last part, and no one will question the truthiness of your claim.

Create a bank of snappy, irrelevant comebacks

Suppose your opponent happens to score a valid point, you need a wealth of snappy, irrelevant phrases to fire back at him. Here are some good ones:

You're barking up the wrong tree
Stop getting defensive
You're comparing apples to oranges
Under what pretense?
Baboons could write Shakespearian sonnets if they had the time

Here's how they work.

Him: "The Winchester manufacturer wasn't even around during Abraham Lincoln's time."
You: "I'm sorry, a Winston I mean."
Him: "That's a brand of cigarettes."
You: "You're barking up the wrong tree"


You: "The Great Stock Market crash of 1939 led-"
Him: "The stock market crashed in 1929"
You: "You're comparing apples to oranges"

Your opponent will attempt to wrap his head around the irrelevance of what you just said, thus allowing an opportunity for you to either vindicate yourself, or sock your opponent in the face.

Don't be afraid to sock your opponent in the face

As always, the key to any argument is to win. So maybe you're losing, don't worry about it, you may have lost the battle but you haven't lost the war. Go ahead and cut your losses by socking your opponent in the face. Hey, arguments get heated, emotions get involved, people understand that. Just try harder with the whole talking part next time. And with that I leave you to go out into the world and argue. Just remember, if you lose any friends for being too "argumentative", this is basically their way of saying "I resent you for your intelligence". Take it as a compliment.

*thanks to dave barry for the topic

Thursday, February 02, 2006

Awight Awready

I'm sitting here in the library at school. Before I sat down I had about an hour to kill, so I went to the librarian to ask how I would go about procuring some books written by Bertrand Russel, cuz ya know I'm like really really intelligent... She whispers something to me completely unintelligable. So I say, "excuse me?". Once again she mutters something in wookie talk, so I pause and politely say, "I'm sorry I'm having trouble hearing you". She gets this impatient, offended look on her face and finally says, "PAPERBACK OR HARDCOVER?". I'd go on about the rest of our conversation but its really not necessary.

Instead, I'm gonna say here what I really wanted to say to her face at that moment. Look ya feline-hording, man-hating, dildo-collecting, post-menopausal, leather-faced bag of douche: if I can't understand you, WHO'S PROBLEM IS THAT? Why would you ever get mad at me? How is it my fault that I can't understand you because putting together syllables and consonants is some kind hurdle of olympic proportions?

Maybe if I was hard of hearing I could share some responsibility. But I'm young, nubile, and healthy of the ears. I could hear two flies fucking in my sleep.

This is seriously an issue of mine. Don't you hate it when someone mumbles something, so you ask them to repeat it, and they mumble it again, so you ask them to repeat it, then they get furious and fucking scream it at you. As if their careless mumbling was your problem. It happens to me all the time and it makes me want to burn down a nursury.

And this is all coming from someone who mumbles profusely. My laziness extends far beyond my unwillingness to do shit that requires walking or heavy breathing. I'm too lazy to pronounce. When I was little I had a BB gun, and I would call it a "Wed Wider" instead of a "Red Rider". But at least I'm aware of this so if someone can't hear me, I accept responsibility and repeat myself in a more articulate manner. And if they still can't understand me, I'll just mumble super loud and hope they're privy enough to get general idea of what I'm trying to say. But I would never get angry at the fuckin person.

Don't do this people. If someone can't hear you, it's your fault. Unless they're your grandparents or something. Then it's probably their fault. Ar-tic-u-late. Stupid Wibrarian.